


infinite

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Blackwood POV, Pining, Season/Series 01, Sickfic, Unrequited Crush, set somewhere between eps 30-38
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 08:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Martin spared another glance at Jon’s sleeping face. He was always so relaxed, like that. The lines smoothed from beneath his eyes, and the crinkles from his forehead. Like he was justJon,and not the Archivist.… of course he was just Jon. Just his Jon.Companion piece totea, blankets, and a damnable stubborn attitude.Same story, told from Martin's POV





	infinite

“Hey, Martin–”

He jumped, slamming his head into the underside of the drawer.

“– sorry!”

“No, it’s… uh, nothing.” Martin rubbed at the throbbing spot on the top of his head and squinted around at Sasha. Give him a minute for his eyes to stop watering. “What’s up?”

“Have you heard from Jon today?”

“No…?” Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. “Why?”

“He’s late.”

“He’s–” Martin glanced at his watch. Nine-twenty. Jon usually got here roundabouts seven, he thought. He didn’t see him until late, necessarily, if either of them were busy. And Jon was _always_ busy. “He’s not here?”

Sasha shook her head. “No. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing, but he hasn’t answered the phone, either.”

“Um.” Immediately, all thoughts of Jane Prentiss or any other currently unknown threat on their safety sprang to mind. “… okay.” Sasha was right; it probably _was_ nothing. But it wasn’t like Jon to be late, or not come in at all. Especially not without a call to the Institute. “I can try? Wait, my phone’s–”

“Here.” Sasha held out a hand to help him up.

“Oh, thanks–”

“You find boss man yet?” Tim peered around the doorway.

“Martin’s gonna try.”

Martin was barely listening. Jon _had_ gone home a bit late last night, but it wasn’t like they all kept tabs on each other every hour of the day. That was too complicated, and… would be letting the paranoia show. Jon, especially, wouldn’t have put up with it for long. He’d just assumed he’d gotten home alright. But what if he _hadn’t?_ What if he’d been attacked somewhere between here and his house? Martin was very aware that he had no idea where Jon lived in conjunction to the Institute, but he never assumed it was _that_ far… then again, why would _that_ matter to something like Jane Prentiss?

Jesus. The phone seemed to ring forever. Jon didn’t answer.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “One of us should go over there, shouldn’t we? I mean, what if it’s serious?”

“Hang on, what if it’s _not?”_ Tim asked. “He’ll flay us alive.”

“Technically, we could flay him alive for being AWOL here,” Sasha reasoned. “I don’t think I’ve seen him miss a day of work.”

Wait. _Wait,_ think, Martin. Something, yesterday… “Hang on.” The other two looked back at him. “I think… maybe– maybe he was getting sick?”

“Sick?”

_“Jon?”_

“I mean, I noticed he was kind of dragging yesterday?” That had to be it. It was so much more logical than a supernatural attack. More likely. _Logical._ He tried to think like Jon, and push the irrationality away. “He sounded a bit raspy after the last recording, but it was late, and he looked tired, so I just thought– but he must have been getting sick, right?”

“Actually,” Tim said, “Martin might be right. Thought something was off, yesterday, but, you know, he’s _Jon._ I didn’t ask.”

Martin jabbed at Jon’s name in his contacts again, and held the phone to his ear. This time, the call was picked up. He urgently pointed at his phone to get the other’s attention, and pressed it closer to his ear.

Eventually, a greeting. _“H’lo?”_

… well, that was Jon, but also didn’t _sound_ like Jon. The voice that met him from the other end of the line sounded _terrible._ Rough and mumbling. “… Jon?” he still asked, like it _wasn’t_ him. Like there was anyone else it could have been. … hopefully, there couldn’t have been. Martin had to ask.

A sigh into the phone. _“Martin. What did you need now…?”_ Still gravelly. Definitely sick. And he’d definitely been sleeping, although the worry fading to this very real concept now was enough to make him pause.

“Were you sleeping?” he settled on, eventually.

_“I do that, now and again.”_

“But not–” He felt the phone pried from his hand before he could even try to grab it back. He’d been too focused on Jon’s voice sounding like that. “Sasha!”

“Jonathan Sims,” she said. “Oversleeping! That’s it, I know they said 2012 was supposed to be the end, but this… this right here is the _true_ sign of doomsday.”

Okay, he knew that was supposed to be a joke, but. Yeah.

Jon must have said something, because Sasha continued. “You have no idea what time it is, do you? It’s gone half nine, Jon.”

Another pause.

Sasha rolled her eyes. “You can take a sick day, Jon. I think we can handle the Institute for one day. We were getting worried until Martin brought it up.” Martin shifted his weight. “Although we were still a little worried when you didn’t pick up the other calls.” Pause. “Because Martin pays extra attention to the three of us?”

He wrinkled his nose. He’d like to _say_ that wasn’t true, but… it was. Especially if it involved their boss, but. Still. “Cheers, can you put me back on now?”

“Honestly, you _were_ dragging yesterday, Jon,” Tim added helpfully. “I’ve started sifting through today’s files already, anything that gets done’ll be ready for recording when you get back.”

“Yeah, we’re on it, Jon. Elias already said if you were sick to stay home. I’m gonna give you back to Martin. Get better.”

Sasha handed back his mobile. Martin rolled his eyes and mouthed _thanks,_ before returning to his interrupted phone call. “So, yeah. We’ll handle things here. You need anything?”

_“No, I can handle myself.”_

Independent. Always, almost to a fault. Martin didn’t say that, though. “Know you can, but it sucks being–” He broke off when Jon _yawned._ It sounded like he just… yawned straight into the phone, probably unintentionally, because even Jon wouldn’t go that far just to get off the phone. That was kind of… endearing, really. “Sucks being sick by yourself.” He couldn’t keep the light, relieved humor out of his voice. “Get some sleep, I won’t keep you.”

 _“Apologies. Talk later,”_ Jon murmured. He probably didn’t know what he was saying.

“Sure thing.”

Jon hung up, presumably to go back to sleep. That was good. And it was good that it was just a cold… albeit one bad enough to actually get Jon to stay home… hm.

Martin tossed his phone back to the foldout, and turned back to the filing cabinet.

He spent the rest of the day organizing, and worrying. Endlessly, always worrying. Especially when it came to Jon.

  


“Hey, Tim?”

“Yeah?”

Okay, Martin. Buck up. It wasn’t even _that_ much of a request. And he was really only putting himself out, not Tim. Actually, Tim got the better deal out of this. _He_ didn’t have to come back to the Institute tonight.

“You’re… You’re going to see Jon, right?”

“Uh, yeah, he texted me to come by. That’s why Sasha got the soup. Can you– oh, cheers, Martin, I can take it.”

Martin didn’t hand over the takeaway bag. “No, I… wanted to come with you. To check up on him. If that’s fine.”

Tim laughed. It flared up embarrassment at the back of his neck, but he shoved it away. He had a mission here. “Martin, it doesn’t take two of us to check on Jon.”

 _“No,_ but he isn’t going to tell me how he is, and even if you go, you still aren’t going to tell me either. So, yeah, I just thought we’d split a cab on the way there, and then I can come back on my own.”

Probably, Martin was imagining how amused Tim looked. He had a habit of doing that. Overreacting. “You know, he _probably_ won’t be too happy if both of us show up,” Tim said, grabbing his gloves.

“Yeah, well.” Martin shrugged. “He’s not _super_ happy anytime, is he?”

That wasn’t true; he knew Jon’s varying levels of happiness, almost by heart. Mostly, the man was happiest doing his recordings. Even then he wasn’t even really _happy,_ didn’t look… ecstatic or anything, but it was just… a subtle thing. Finding Jon tucked away in his office, scribbling away at whatever notes he was working on, glasses pushed up his nose… yeah, he just… was happy in those moments.

Or over a cup of tea, even, even when Martin made it. It had taken _ages_ to figure out Jon’s preferences in that regard. He never specified. He never _asked,_ actually. Martin just… _did,_ watching his reactions until he got the perfect combination of milk and sugar. And he hadn’t tried anything different since then.

There were other things, really, the way Jon lost himself in his own books that he paged through during lunch, or the way he breathed in the smell of rain after a pleasant spring downpour, or the jelly candy that he kept stored in the drawer of his desk… things Jon liked. Things that made him happy.

… buuuut Martin wasn’t going to say all that. That was probably a bit much.

Tim didn’t seem to need a dissertation, anyway. He just huffed a dry laugh, and said, “well, you’ve got a point. Come on, then. I’m not staying, though, you know that, right?”

“That’s fine. I’m just gonna grab my coat– meet you at the front?”

“Alright.”

Martin went.

  


“You’re _sure_ he told you to come by?” Martin shuffled on the doorstep. It was cold, and he’d forgotten his scarf. And night was falling. And they’d been knocking on Jon’s door but he wasn’t _answering._

“I’m quite positive, Martin. He’s probably… just asleep?”

“Or he’s too sick to answer the door.” Christ. He’d been spinning those nightmares all day long. “Maybe we should call him–”

“Wait.” Tim leaned a little closer to the door. Martin held his breath as he knocked again. “Jon? It’s me.”

Vaguely, there was movement from the other side of the door. Martin sighed in relief. So he wasn’t dead. Silly to let his worst case scenarios run that far, but… worst case scenarios were _kind of_ becoming their things.

His relief was kind of short-lived, though. Jon _did_ open the door, after what seemed like _too long…_ and he looked bad. Not like just having a stuffed up nose kind of bad, which was what he was kind of expecting (despite all those worst case scenarios.) Jon had been talking to them on the phone this morning and he had sounded _not good,_ but then they’d clearly woken him up and he was pretty much his usual self. But this…

He was pale, his hair was a mess, dark shadows smeared under his eyes from a lack of sleep, or, at least, lack of _good_ sleep. His nose was a little red, even. He just… looked wrecked. Surprised, as his eyes slid over to Martin, but still. Martin didn’t think he’d seen Jon look _that_ bad before.

Tim either, apparently. “Oh, there you– Jesus, Jon, you look, uh… not great.”

Jon opened his mouth to rasp out a rough “thanks,” and then turned his head to cough. It sounded like it _hurt,_ too.

Martin’s throat was dry. Or maybe it was just aching in sympathy. “You’ve been like this all day?” He took a step forward. This was why he’d wanted to come. This was _exactly_ why. “You didn’t sound so bad on the phone.”

Jon was _still_ coughing. A brief wave of a hand, clearly a dismissal, which Martin was used to, but, well, when Jon was burying his face into his arm to _cough_ like that, the dismissal didn’t matter. He just kept coughing, shoulders hunching in on himself. Body shaking with the effort.

“… shit,” he mumbled. He looked between Tim, and Jon, and then reached to steady the man who looked so uncharacteristically unsteady. “Get him some water,” he said, and tightened his grip on Jon’s shoulder as he sensed the man about to protest.

“Yeah,” Tim said quickly.

Even through the coughing, for a second, Martin thought Jon looked _dismayed._ But he put that aside, because Jon standing here without a shirt on in the winter air _wasn’t_ good, and– oh. Oh, _God,_ he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Martin hadn’t noticed. How hadn’t he noticed? Because he was too worried about Jon’s health. But Jon really wasn’t wearing a shirt, and… focus. This wasn’t good for him. So, Martin urged him back inside, careful and slow, not doing much to help him back to the sofa but also ready to make sure he was ready to do… whatever, if Jon needed.

Tim came back with the water, and Jon was definitely shaking as he took the glass. But it was liquids, which was good, and it would hopefully help wash away that cough. Jon sipped at the water, and the two of them just… stood there.

… he could look at the bigger picture now. So, Jon was… without a shirt… but wearing a pair of lounge pants, too. The drawstring wasn’t tied, and there was a small hole below the knee. Martin didn’t know why he noticed. Jon was barefoot, and wasn’t wearing his glasses, which always made him look a bit more vulnerable than Martin was used to seeing at work, but… the whole thing was a little vulnerable. A lot vulnerable.

Which was fair, of course, because even if Jon _hadn’t_ been sick, God knew Martin didn’t put in any effort when he was home– at the Institute, by himself. It was just pants, usually, whatever boxers he grabbed from his bag and maybe a shirt if it got cold in the Institute. But it was so hot, anyway, and the air con wasn't set _that_ cold, so… it was a low key affair. When you were alone, you just… didn’t try, did you? It was… oddly comforting to know Jon was the same as the rest of them, in that way.

Even if his face was starting to look a little more pinched the longer Tim and Martin stared. “Well, now that I’ve been forced to share the location of my home with both of you…” he said slowly, still hoarse but at least no longer coughing. “Tim?”

“Yeah.” He started rummaging through his bag. Martin watched on with curiosity; he hadn’t _really_ said why Jon had asked him over, anyway. “I brought ‘em. Don’t know what you expect to do, really, like this, but they’re here,” he said, and pulled out a stack of folders from work.

“Wait.” Work. Cases. Jon had– of _course_ he had. “You brought him _cases?_ That’s why you were coming?”

“He asked me to. What am I going to say, no?”

 _Yes! That’s exactly what you say!_ he wanted to say, but Jon was already interrupting before he could open his mouth to even get the words out.

“In my defense, I wasn’t quite so bad off this morning,” he said dryly.

Okay, so he _hadn’t_ been so sick this morning. Martin hadn’t misjudged. He was just getting worse. That… didn’t really make Martin feel any better. “You need rest, Jon, not more work. That's _why_ you took off today.”

“Which reminds me, why are you here again?”

… the question was so point blank that it threw him off a bit. But it was so very _Jon._ Familiar, that gaze directed onto him, stern but not completely unkind. It was both welcoming and scary when he had Jon’s full attention. “Uhh… oh! Well. Sasha ordered in for lunch, and figured you wouldn't have anything, and since she knew Tim was coming, she got some soup for you.” He held up the takeaway bag. He’d been hanging onto it since they’d left the Institute. Tim had joked he’d been holding it like a live bomb in the cab, but… Sasha was right. Jon probably _wouldn’t_ have had food, and looking at him now only verified that thought. No way had Jon been able to make anything in this state.

And he looked hungry, just then, looking at the bag of food that Martin was offering. He probably wouldn’t have admitted to that, though. “And _you_ brought it because…?”

“Because he wanted to come, anyway,” Tim said, “and wouldn't take no for an answer.” Martin shot him a glare. He hadn’t sounded _that_ desperate, had he? “So we split a cab. Sasha sent the soup, but there was no need for all of us to come. There wasn't even a need for _two_ of us…” A mutter, and Martin huffed through his nose and looked away. “Not that it isn't great to see you, as always, Jon, you know.”

“Yes,” Jon drawled, and before Martin could really pull himself out of his own mild embarrassment, Jon was moving to get up from the sofa.

Martin took a step forward _again._ He was dangerously close to banging his knees into the coffee table. “What are you doing?” He had his hand on Jon’s bare shoulder again before he could stop himself. He wouldn’t have dared been so… familiar with him at work. But this was different. He was _sick._ It was different.

He’d… keep telling himself that.

“The soup _is_ for eating, yes? I'm not really keen on it cold, Martin.”

And he thought… no, again, of course he did. “Don’t be stupid.” He straightened up. “I’ll heat it up. Where’s your microwave?”

He didn’t give him time to complain, really. He just turned his back and headed to the kitchen. You couldn’t really miss a microwave. Plus, he was a little worried that if he didn’t immediately move to heat up the soup, Jon really _would_ take it upon himself to.

“Martin, really–”

He ignored him.

He was good at that, really. He didn’t _like_ to ignore him, but, well… Jon told him not to do things for him, all the time. Half of the time… more than half of the time… Jon took his tea at work with a gentle chastisement as it was. _“You didn’t need to do that, Martin.” “Don’t you have something else to be doing, Martin?”_ There was no sting to it; Jon probably didn’t even realize he did it anymore. A habit. He just didn’t seem to understand that Martin _liked_ doing things for him. Martin liked helping.

Not that it… usually did much good, but…

In any case, it afforded him a minute _out_ of Jon’s view. He’d been fine until he’d noticed he was half-naked. Totally normal, really. Definitely normal. Jon didn’t sleep in button-downs and blue jeans. Still, it was… weird. And he was getting flustered thinking about it. So. It was good to have a minute.

… Jon’s kitchen was a little unorganized. The plates and glasses weren’t in the cupboards they should have been. And where were the _bowls…?_ Were any of them microwaveable?

“Martin.” He paused in rummaging to listen as Tim called his name. “I’ve got an appointment. If you’re splitting with me again, we gotta go.”

Oh, that was right. He’d said he wasn’t staying. … damn. He hesitated with his hand on the cabinet door, cycling through the pros and cons and _knowing_ he wouldn’t be able to force himself to leave now. How could he? “I’ll stay,” he called back, and continued looking for something that was microwave safe.

“Are you _really_ gonna stay here and pester Jon all evening?”

The click of his tongue went unheard over closing the cabinet door. Another. As much as he hated going through Jon’s cabinets without asking– wait, those bowls looked promising. “I’m not _pestering_ him. I’m heating up soup.”

“Oh, you might as well make him another cup of tea while you’re at it.”

He was being _sarcastic,_ Martin could hear. But… “oh.” He had a point. Martin was _good_ at tea. “Good idea.”

There was still talking from the other side of the wall, but Martin had finally gotten the bowl in the microwave and he couldn’t really hear. They weren’t talking to him, anyway, he didn’t think. Anyway, he had tea to focus on. Find. He didn’t even seen any canisters…

Tim took his leave shortly after that, telling him to take care of Jon. As if he wouldn’t.

 _I always take care of Jon._ He didn’t say that out loud.

Instead, he kept himself busy. Tea and soup. Tidying up Jon’s kitchen, a little, putting away what he felt like Jon didn’t use on a daily basis. He was… a bit messy, actually. That was comforting, in a way, too. Martin was even smiling a bit when he finally heard Jon moving about in the other room… a matter of time, really.

He glanced back through the doorway. Jon _was_ back on his feet. “What are you doing?” He tried to make it sound less accusing than it felt, when all he really wanted him to do was sit down and stay sat down.

“Bathroom. Lock up, will you?” A vague gesture towards the front door, and Martin realized no one must have locked it after Tim. God. The last thing they needed now was Jane Prentiss showing up.

… he wondered if that was where Jon’s mind went, too. Probably not. “Oh. Right. Definitely. You okay on your own?”

“I’m always on my own.”

Martin stopped in the middle of the room. Jon didn’t seem to notice, really, just kept moving towards the other side of the house. _I’m always on my own._ That was… that wasn’t _true,_ though. Did Jon really think that? He… maybe? He _did_ spend a lot of time alone, but it wasn’t like he was _alone_ alone.

… he really hoped Jon didn’t really think that. It made him sick to his stomach to think about.

Either way, when Jon came back, he clearly wasn’t thinking about what he’d just said, so Martin tried to let it go. He didn’t think he’d be able to have that kind of conversation with him, anyway. So he pushed the thought to the side, to revisit later when he could continue to feel miserable over it. Jon had managed to put on a shirt and was looking somewhat more intent at the smell of food in the flat, so it gave him something else to focus on.

“You wanna eat in there, or the table–” Jon started past him without verbally answering, and Martin blinked. “Alright, table it is.” He dodged around him to clear off the table before Jon could sit down. He’d been hesitating to move the untouched newspapers and unopened mail but… he had to put Jon’s food somewhere. “You’ve got a fever, don’t you?”

“Probably,” Jon allowed, easing himself into a chair. He still had to brace a hand on the tabletop to keep steady, and he just looked… pale and withdrawn.

Martin pursed his lips, carefully putting down the bowl of soup. “Did you take your temperature?” Jon made a vague noise, a _no._ Martin set the mug of tea down. “You really should. Where’s your thermometer?”

Jon stopped, so immediately that it was almost _comical._ Spoonful of soup hovering in midair, even. And _that_ was answer enough, even when Jon started to speak and then trailed off.

Martin sighed. “You don’t have a thermometer, do you?”

“It’s seeming unlikely,” Jon admitted, and then blew on the spoonful of soup.

Of course. Really, this was a different side of Jon. He was usually so… _fastidious_ at work. Everything in its place. And then there was _home Jon,_ who didn’t even have a thermometer, which was kind of a basic human thing? “Ummm…” He could always go out and _buy_ a thermometer, even if it wasn’t _that_ important. He’d know if Jon’s fever started going too high, probably, but– “oh! First aid kit?” He should have thought of that _sooner._

“What? Er– I believe so?

“Good.” Martin leaned his arms on the back of the free chair. “There’ll be disposable thermometers in there. Be able to get a number that way then, later.”

If Jon was surprised that Martin even _knew_ about disposable thermometers, he didn’t show it. He wasn’t expressing much, right now, anyway, but it didn’t matter. He seemed to like the soup, at least. It was too bad it wasn’t chicken noodle, but Sasha had ordered Chinese so egg drop was better than nothing… it was warm, and filling, and nourishing. That was what mattered.

Maybe, if Jon was still sick tomorrow (which Martin didn’t _want_ him to be, but, well, usually fevers didn’t clear up in a day, did they? Whenever he got sick, it always seemed to _linger)_ Martin would make some chicken noodle. He’d have to stop off at Asda, because they never really seemed to keep surplus of _food_ in the Institute’s meager kitchen, but if he headed out early enough, he’d be able to get ingredients and then get back to the Institute before it was time to officially start work…

… Jon looked about as zoned out as Martin felt. Or worse, actually. He was just… kind of staring into space with this blank look. _Distant._ Martin was used to seeing Jon deep in thought, but this… wasn’t that kind of thing.

It was the fever glaze in his eyes that really made his skin crawl.

“Jon?” he asked quietly, and both of them jumped when the man dropped his spoon back into the now half empty bowl.

“… what?” He _sounded_ as lost as he’d been looking.

“You’re zoning out a little… you should probably go back to sleep.” The soup wasn’t a cure-all, of course, but… too bad it wouldn’t help right away. Probably he shouldn’t have been giving him _hot_ soup and _hot_ tea when he had a _fever,_ but… you just wanted creature comforts when you were sick. And he didn’t _have_ anything else. Jon barely had food in his fridge as it was.

But with the way Jon was looking, maybe they should have done the thermometer _before_ he’d eaten. He’d have to wait at least a half hour for an accurate reading, and he didn’t want to keep him awake that long. Old school, then. He reached out to put his hand on Jon’s forehead.

A mistake. He hadn’t been thinking, really.

Jon _flinched,_ a full body cringe that had him slamming upright in the chair he was sitting in. Martin jerked his hand back, but the damage was already done. _His_ heart was pounding. He’d _never_ seen Jon react like that. Move like that. Look _startled_ like that. “Sorry! I–” He took a step back, folding his hands behind his back. _He_ was shaking. “I, uh, sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Jon muttered. If it was meant to be a complaint, it was a sorry excuse for one.

“Your temperature… it’s just, it’s still too soon since you’ve eaten, so… yeah. Sorry, I should’ve asked–”

“I’m _tired,_ Martin.” He was already getting to his feet. “Go _home.”_

That _definitely_ wasn’t going to happen. But, “whatever you say,” he murmured, just to placate him. But he wasn’t going home. He _definitely_ wasn’t going home.

He did let Jon go, though. He figured the man was just going to go back to bed, and if he tried to stop him now, it wouldn’t go well. So, he let him go. He’d check up on him in a bit.

  


… the nerves were back.

Not even because of the _obvious nature_ of the thing, but also because… Jon was going to kill him if he woke up and found Martin standing over his bed. And going into his room felt… weird? He most definitely wasn’t allowed there, but he just needed to make sure… make sure something. _That he wasn’t dead._

Stop it, Martin. Just go in.

The door wasn’t closed; Jon probably never thought to close it. But especially not now, when he was sick. Maybe Martin would just… peek in. Yeah. Yeah, that was a good idea. He definitely wouldn’t bother him that way.

Finding Jon curled _sideways_ on the mattress, probably having just… dropped into it, was not what he’d expected. He was asleep, at least, but… not the right way? Martin guessed it didn’t matter. He just looked uncomfortable? His bare feet were hanging over the edge of the mattress and a sleeve had been rucked up past his elbow.

… he looked oddly… small.

It wasn’t the first time Martin had seen him asleep. Of course not. Jon was a workaholic. He had worked late before all of this Prentiss stuff, and now, some days, he didn’t even go home. It was always him or Sasha that woke him up if he fell asleep in his office. But this was different. This was all… different.

There was no way he was going to get Jon under the blankets now. He didn’t even want to try, really. So… wait, there’d been a blanket on the sofa. It was still half draped over the back of it, so Jon must have been trying to sleep with it earlier. That would work. Carefully, Martin doubled back to the sitting room, collected the blanket, and then… even more carefully crept into Jon’s bedroom.

It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t. He was just _helping._

Still, he held his breath as he spread the blanket over Jon. It wouldn’t have mattered, because Jon didn’t move at all. Didn’t even breathe any deeper. Just that same, slightly wheezy inhale and exhale as he kept on sleeping.

… something was making his heart ache.

God, he didn’t want to _think_ about what it was, but he _knew,_ he’d known for some time, it didn’t bear dwelling on but it didn’t _matter,_ it was too late for him now–

– this was weird, now.

Martin swallowed the lump in his throat, and fled.

  


There were things to do.

There were dishes, both from the dinner he’d warmed over for Jon and from earlier or last night. So Martin did those. Wiping down the table. Putting the stack of papers back on the table where he’d gotten them, but trying to make them a bit more tidy there. He was good at household chores. So, he did those first.

Then, he made himself a cuppa, and led himself back to the couch. The folders Tim had brought over were still on the table. He’d been reorganizing, all day, so he definitely hadn’t had the chance to look through anything new. He probably shouldn’t, but… what the hell. It was his job, too, and he’d see them eventually, anyway.

So Martin sat, and read, and drank tea, and did _not_ think about Jon, and his own _stupid,_ unfortunate, _pathetic_ feelings.

It worked, after awhile. Because hearing the shuffle of movement traveling from the bedroom to the bathroom made him jump, a little, until he realized it was just Jon. Martin closed the case files, but didn’t move. He just listened.

Sluggish movement. The tap running. Coughing. _Vomiting._

Martin cringed.

He couldn’t ignore _that._ Jon… wouldn’t be happy to see he was still here, let alone being interrupted if he was being ill, but… it was a new development. He hadn’t been vomiting earlier, so this was either a chance thing or Jon was getting worse. And he couldn’t ignore that.

God, he did feel bad, though. Especially when he asked if he was alright (when he clearly _wasn’t)_ and Jon almost fell straight over into the toilet. He looked _terrible._ To be expected after throwing up, but there were tears on his face and Martin… he wanted–

“Why are you _here?”_ Jon snapped, and Martin _knew_ it was meant to be cold and bitter even if it didn’t quite make it there. He was hoarse, and sounded exhausted, but the anger was there, anyway. The glare was weak, but _there, anyway._

Martin took a deep breath, and lifted his chin. Jon’s annoyance hurt, but his anger was… something else entirely. But he wasn’t going to let him do what he was trying to do: drive him away. Not now. Not _ever._ “I’m not gonna leave while you’re like this,” he said quietly. “Yell at me all you like. I’ll get you more tea. But if you’re not back in bed before it’s ready, I _will_ be helping you back to your room. So just… yeah.” He bit the inside of his cheek, and then nodded. “Prepare for that.”

Then he did Jon the _decency_ of leaving the doorway again, going to make him that cup of tea. He kept moving until he was in the kitchen… and then had to stop to re-collect himself. Yeah. Jon had been angry at him before. Shouted at him before proper, he’d shouted at all of them before, and that had been… _a lot._ He, Tim, and Sasha had all been… _quiet,_ afterwards. Tim had recovered first, muttering “well!” and stalking off, and Martin and Sasha had parted ways with just as uneasy looks of guilt. Or shame. Or _whatever_ they had been feeling, but that time… that time Martin had wanted to cry.

Silly. Their job wasn’t low stress. It was fast-paced on the _weird_ cases, and things were always changing, and there was always something to be doing as they helped Jon try to get the archives back into a fit state. Working at the Magnus Institute was high pressure, _especially_ these days, and Martin hadn’t even cried when he’d finally gotten back to the Institute after those two weeks of _knocking…_ even though he’d wanted to. He had… really… _really_ wanted to. But Jon had talked him down and given him tea and the spare room at the archives and it had been _fine,_ and if he cried later, that was his own business and just the fact that he hadn’t slept well in two weeks, thank you very much.

But something about disappointing Jon… something about upsetting Jon badly enough for him to be _that_ angry… that was worse than Jane Prentiss.

So, yeah, Martin had to duck around the kitchen corner and let himself slump back against the wall to breathe for a moment before he could get on with making Jon tea.

He wouldn’t take this to heart. He would _not._ Jon was sick, and miserable because of it, and what he was saying now didn’t _count._ Yes, Jon got angry, and he got annoyed, and nitpicked, and complained, and was a bit of an arse sometimes, but _everyone_ did that at some point. Because Jon was also warm, and gentle, and _caring,_ and had gone out of his way to help him, and _all_ of them, and would do it again because beneath all that stiff-upper lip, skeptic _bullshit,_ Jon was……perfect.

He laughed out loud at his own thoughts. Pathetic. This was _pathetic._ And definitely not the time for a crisis of conscience.

He fixed Jon his tea, and was _very_ relieved to find the man already back in bed when he hesitantly peeked into the room, although he tried not to let that show. Jon drank his tea without speaking, and Martin couldn’t find a single suitable word to quite break the silence this time, either.

  


Even old reruns weren’t doing much of anything to keep him awake. Somehow, in between tending Jon and watching his favorite episodes of the Doctor, it had gone almost one in the morning and… he was about to fall asleep on Jonathan Sims’s couch. How many times had he thought about that? He wondered. Not really in this capacity, though.

Momentary bump in the road earlier, it still wasn’t like he regretted coming over. He knew Jon didn’t mean it, and maybe the man hadn’t _apologized,_ but he had fallen asleep with his empty mug still in hand and Martin had been able to coax it away from him _and_ talk him into laying down and shuffling under the blankets, and Jon hadn’t protested _once._ He’d mumbled something, but it hadn’t been angry. Just soft and half asleep, and Martin had melted.

Yeah, _yeah,_ he knew how that sounded. Unhealthy, unhappy, unheard of. But it wasn’t going to change the way he thought, or felt, or behaved.

He loved Jon. All parts of him. Even the prickly ones. Those were the ones that hid the best parts of him.

… also, it was almost one a.m, and Martin wasn’t really used to staying up late since he’d gotten settled into living at the Institute.

“… Martin.”

He jumped at the voice in the darkness, and then scrambled to sit up. Jon was standing in the doorway, still clutching at the blanket Martin had given him earlier. That warmed him. “Jon, you’re– wait.” He glanced between the television and the man currently leaning in the doorway. “The TV didn’t wake you, did it? I can turn it off?”

Jon shook his head, a vague motion in the gloomy most darkness that had covered the flat. Martin hadn’t turned the lights on, on the off chance it would bother Jon trying to sleep. “I thought I told you to go home.”

“Home?” The words slipped out. He was subconsciously aware of them even as he was _saying_ them, but he couldn’t stop the syllables. “What home?”

He hadn’t meant to say that. _Really,_ he hadn’t. It was just… it was late, and he was tired, and worried over Jon, and it was… a tiny… bit… true? Sure, he had a home, a flat that was still let out to him that he paid on monthly _despite_ going there two or three times in said month, if that, but… well, it didn’t matter. The Institute was _safe._ That’s what mattered. And he appreciated it. If not for Jon offering it (and Elias evidently okay-ing it) he wouldn’t have _anywhere._

But he hadn’t meant to say all of that to Jon, of all people.

Jon looked like he was floundering for a moment. But he collected himself quickly enough, which meant he had to be feeling a _little_ better. Better than the last time he’d been awake, anyway. “Back to the Institute.”

Yeah. Exactly his point, but again, _grateful._ He wanted to move on from that. There were more important things, like Jon still singing the same old song. (Albeit a little… softer, now.) “You keep saying that, but that’s bull. D’you _honestly_ expect me to believe you want to be here all alone when you’re sick?” No, he refused to believe that. He _hated_ being alone while he was sick. It made him feel so bad, even worse than whatever was wrong with him. He still called his _mom_ when he was sick, sometimes. “I know you’re not the most social person, Jon, hell, _not_ a social person at all, but I wasn’t going to just _leave.”_ Surely Jon hadn’t expected that. Martin had been told before he was a man of habit, so him staying couldn’t be that much of a shock, could it?

“Listen, I know we’re not… we’re just co-workers, right? That’s how you see us, all of us, which is… _fine.”_ It wasn’t, really, because he wanted to be _more._ He’d settle with Jon calling him a _friend,_ at least. But if that couldn’t happen, Martin would take _co-worker._ It was better than _acquaintance,_ or something like that. _Stranger._ “But I think you’re my friend. You _are_ my friend, just like Sasha and Tim, and I’d do the same thing for Sasha and Tim, and– and you, of course,” _of course,_ “so… so be mad at me all you like, but like I told you earlier, I’m staying. And… And, well, it’s almost one, and I _really_ don’t want to go back to the Institute by myself now, so, uh.” It was such a lacklustre ending to his little speech, but… it was _true._ Going out now would be asking for it, wouldn’t it? He really didn’t want to take any more chances. “Here I am.”

… God, he really was too tired. He was _rambling,_ and Jon was just looking at him with… some kind of expression Martin couldn’t really make out from across the room. He thought maybe he ought to… apologize. Or, well, no, not apologize, because he wasn’t sorry for saying all of that, but maybe for… saying it now? At one in the morning? All on one or two breaths, while Jon was still sick?

Jon pushed away from the doorway, and Martin shifted on the sofa. Maybe he should just turn off the TV anyway, for… something to do. Jesus, he wasn’t usually such a nervous wreck like this. He didn’t even get this jumpy at work. He’d blame lack of sleep and… the emotional roller coaster the past seven or so hours had been.

Jon stopped next to the couch. And then just… flopped onto the sofa next to him.

It was _so_ very un-Jon-like. Not even so much the boneless drop onto the couch, even though the… yeah, it was a flop, there was no other word, was uncharacteristic of Jon, but… the fact he was sitting next to _him,_ close enough that their shoulders were touching. Jon didn’t have to sit there, there was more room, and he could have asked him to move, but–

“What are we watching?” Jon asked.

“We… u–uh…” _Focus, Martin!_ “Uh, Doctor W–”

“Oh God.”

“It’s the only thing I have saved on my phone,” he protested. This was normal. Usual. They’d discussed Jon’s distaste of the _classics,_ before. Who didn’t like Doctor Who? “And your TV needs an upgrade, it took me ages to get it to cast.”

“My TV is fine,” Jon muttered, nestling down further into the blanket, and managed to _almost_ look like he was pouting.

They bantered channels for a bit, but Jon relented on reruns and it didn’t really seem like it would matter much, anyway. Jon was already yawning into the blanket before the Doctor had gone back to the TARDIS. He didn’t say anything, but Martin caught him watching with at least a little interest at some points, so he quietly decided to explain characters and plot during those moments. Jon probably wasn’t interested, not really, but he nodded when he was meant to and didn’t tell him to shut up, so, it was a victory.

Right up until the moment where Jon’s head landed on his shoulder.

Martin didn’t understand why Jon was shoving his shoulder until he looked over and was met with dark, wavy hair in his face instead and only _then_ did he realize Jon had fallen asleep and was using his shoulder as a pillow. _And then_ Martin thought he froze for a whole thirty seconds, unable to comprehend that this was _happening._ Because Jon was a stickler for propriety. Because… Because… God, he smelled good. He’d been fever sweating and probably hadn’t had a shower today and he still smelled good, like cologne or deodorant or shampoo. Just _Jon’s_ smell.

They’d been close before, poring over cases or paperwork or even once crammed into the back of a cab with boxes of artifacts for the Institute’s storage, but… not like this. This was… intimate. Something Martin wanted very, very deeply.

Maybe it was taking advantage of the situation ( _definitely_ taking advantage of the situation, and he’d feel guilty for it later, he was sure, but it wouldn’t stop him from rubbing one off to the warm weight of Jon’s body pressed up against him and the smell of his hair) but… Martin wasn’t going to move. Or wake Jon up, because he needed the sleep. He was just. Going to sit here. And relax, bit by bit, once he could coerce himself into doing that.

Relax.

Right.

It took a long while before he was able to do that, a long while to chase away dangerous thoughts (because he _absolutely did not_ need to get hard _now.)_ But once it did, once he was content enough that Jon wasn’t going to wake up at the slightest move, Martin was assailed by all the exhaustion and worry from throughout the day. Again. And this time, he _wanted_ to sleep. To fall asleep like this, with Jon curled into him. Even if it was a little uncomfortable to sleep sitting up, and he couldn’t really do anything with his arms asides cross them over his chest (or put one around Jon’s shoulders, but that was absolutely not an option he was willing to let either one of them wake up to.) Even if it was a little uncomfortable, it was… beyond good.

Martin spared another glance at Jon’s sleeping face. He was always so relaxed, like that. The lines smoothed from beneath his eyes, and the crinkles from his forehead. Like he was just _Jon,_ and not the Archivist.

… of course he was just Jon. Just his Jon.

Martin, in a move he would later think back on as potentially the stupidest and most reckless of his life, allowed his lips to brush against Jon’s hair. It was nothing. It was everything.

It was another ten minutes before he worked up the nerve to remove Jon’s glasses, which, perhaps predictably, did draw the man out of his nap. But it was just a mumbled noise, incoherent speech of someone still half asleep, or very close to being so.

“Sorry, just… taking your glasses,” Martin explained quietly. It was true. That was all Jon needed to know.

Jon hummed, and drifted off again.

Martin must have followed, soon thereafter.

  


There was definitely _something_ that had woken him up, but it took Martin a few, _long,_ sleep-deprived moments to figure it out. Mostly he was just kind of confused, and wondered why it was so light out, and why he was sleeping while sitting up. And hurting now, _because_ he’d slept sitting up. “Ow, fuck…” He was getting too old for that. And, anyway, why–

– oh, _Jon._

“Oh.” He tilted his head to look towards where he’d left Jon. The man was already awake and sitting up, which was… a little disappointing but also probably what had woken him up. The lack of Jon’s warmth. “Morning. How…” He cleared his throat, sitting up straight. “How are you feeling?”

“Slightly more alive,” Jon murmured. His fingers touched to the bridge of his nose, and it was only at the confused look that followed that Martin realized Jon probably didn’t remember him taking his glasses. And… the other thing. Which was good.

“Oh, here.” He plucked them from where he had oh-so-carefully placed them on the unoccupied end of the sofa. “I kind of took them off you? After you fell asleep. Didn’t want the frames bent or anything…” And because… he’d just _wanted_ to.

He wanted this domesticity, desperately. Falling asleep next to Jon. Waking up next to him, too. Taking his glasses off when he was too tired to do it himself or making him tea in the familiarity of his own home.

“Thank you,” Jon said softly, and his fingers did touch Martin’s when he took his glasses back.

… this was fine, too.

“You could have woken me.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve had worse.” He’d had much, _much_ worse. His spine still cracked when he stretched, and Jon’s face at the noise made Martin grin ruefully. “Uhh, well, I _have_ had worse…”

“Right.” Jon smoothed the look away. “We’re late for work.”

Martin opened his mouth.

 _“You’re_ late for work,” Jon amended. “If I can’t go in again, we need the three of you at least.”

Oh. He… wasn’t going to try and argue. Well, _that_ was a marked improvement over the night before. See. _See?_ Jon _wasn’t_ the type of person most people would probably think at first glance. He was a _good person._ Martin would stand by that until the day he died.

Still, he couldn’t help but laugh at this change, from the stubborn Jon of last night to _this_ more gentle Jon. Or maybe he was just laughing because he was tired. “Guess you’re feeling better, then.” He scrubbed at his eyes. “I’ll go.” _For now._ That brought up a new question. One more innocent than his own thoughts. “Can I stop by tonight, though…? Just to– to check on you.”

“Are you going to show up even if I say ‘no?’” Jon still sounded tired, too. But that was a joke, barely audible by the faint amount of humor in his voice.

They both knew the answer, anyway. “Maybe?” he asked, like they _didn’t._

Jon sighed, and then… shrugged. Giving him _permission._ “As you will, then.” Even _vocal_ permission. Like, yeah, Martin would have come back, anyway, just to check on him, but the fact that Jon was telling him he _could?_ Good. That was good.

Martin nodded, and then nipped off to the bathroom (becoming faintly dismayed by the state of his hair stuck up in all directions.) He’d kill for his toothbrush, or even a cup of tea to chase away the morning breath, but it could wait. Everything was waiting at the Institute, anyway.

His coat instead, and being about to wish Jon well today until he could return, and then,

“Thank you, Martin.”

He couldn’t help it. He just _stared,_ for a second. That was the most genuine he’d heard him in the past twenty-four hours. He couldn’t help but grin, again. He felt a bit ridiculous, really, but _Jon,_ saying _thank you,_ like that. “Yeah, anytime. Not that I hope you get sick again anytime, soon, I mean, or well, _anytime._ But yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, aware he was hovering next to the door as it was. “Right. Call if you want me to bring anything tonight.”

“If I think of anything.”

“‘kay,” Martin replied. Then, because he couldn’t think of another single, _good_ reason to linger any longer, saw himself out. Waved at Jon over his shoulder as he went, and waited until the man had closed the door behind him.

He was tired, and it was _freezing,_ and he was late for work and Jon was still sick, and looking at his texts now, Tim had sent him a vaguely crass message that almost seemed _knowing,_ but… it had been a good day. A good night. Trying, a little, but… he’d do it all again. Oh, he would in a _heartbeat._ And while he didn’t think he’d be able to justify falling asleep at Jon’s again tonight, especially if he was feeling a little better… he was still going back. So there was that.

Maybe he’d make enough tea for the both of them this time. And maybe if Jon didn’t fall asleep, they’d drink it together.

Martin absolutely did not bounce on the balls of his feet as he hailed down a cab, and his heart absolutely did not skip a beat when Jon texted him at the end of the day and asked him which kind of tea was ‘better for colds.’

_I can make honey and lemon when I get there. Drink chamomile until then?_

He sent the text quickly, and tried to focus on the print blurring in front of him until Jon could text him back. It took a few minutes, but he did.

_Right, thank you._

Simple. Blunt. _Jon._

Martin beamed.

 

 _“If a thing loves, it is infinite.”_ _– William Blake_

**Author's Note:**

> Martin's voice is _fun_ (but goddamn if he didn't give me an extra 2k to write vs the SAME FIC in Jon's POV) and I'm laboring under the impression he's got a Huge Crush(tm) on Jon; even if canon proves me wrong here, I'm sticking with this hc (ง •̀_•́)ง
> 
> (edit: me, caught up and actively following the season: ha. huge crush.)


End file.
